


these feelings i long for (best left unsaid)

by flailingensues



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Implied Relationships, M/M, One Shot, Other, POV Outsider, Pining, Short One Shot, Victorian, aziraphale being the gay patron saint that he is, crowley being asleep for the most of the 19th century, let us never forget the gavotting, outsider pov, that sucker who falls for aziraphale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-20 05:37:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20222680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flailingensues/pseuds/flailingensues
Summary: Or, what happened in the 19th century?





	these feelings i long for (best left unsaid)

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from flor's "unsaid".

THE BEGINNING

It wasn’t a grand beginning. At least not on a biblical scale. It was an understated moment, one could say, but one that Jack would look back on, occasionally, and wonder why he didn’t notice anything sooner.

He didn’t believe in fate. Not really. But there was a certain freedom to the notion that one could simply come and go with the tides of life and wash up somewhere sunny either way.

Point in case: It was raining the first time Jack met Mr. Fell.

THE MAN IN QUESTION

Azira Fell never needed to initiate a conversation. People were drawn to him and his charm, which was at times childish, yet sometimes the way he talked was older that the hills. Jack appreciated Mr. Fell’s white suits and platinum blonde curls maybe more than was appropriate.

And his eyes. Blue, with flecks of gold. He didn’t look at people, he _gazed_, gave them his full attention, a rarity in a place that was obsessed with keeping up the appearance of attention. It wasn’t fair, Jack thought, that a human could look and act as angelic as Mr. Fell did.

Sometimes, Jack would pick up the courage to enter the throng of people gathered round Mr. Fell and his hot chocolate, even if just to look at Mr. Fell from a closer distance.

ONE AFTERNOON

“I’m terribly sorry, my dear boy, but I never did catch your name.”

Mr. Fell sounded apologetic, almost sheepish, and Jack did not doubt that Mr. Fell truly regretted not knowing his name, because that was just the type of person he seemed to be.

“It’s Jack, sir.” Jack resisted the urge to tip his hat. For starters, he wasn’t even wearing one.

“Jack.” Mr. Fell smiled, a gentle breath of fresh air in the stuffy clubroom. “What a _lovely_ name.”

“Oh no, it’s awfully common,” Jack said, all sense of social grace, all the rules he had forced himself to learn over the years leaving him unceremoniously.

“Nonsense,” Mr. Fell said. “As long as you wear it comfortably. I believe there’s no such thing as a bad name.”

The look in his eyes grew distant, a sign that Jack recognised as Mr. Fell being lost in memories. Some of the best stories in the club were told after this look. On other occasions Mr. Fell seemed to retreat into himself for a few moments.

Mr. Fell never talked much about his personal life, though he had an endless supply of anecdotes and stories that he must have read from history books. They were uncannily compelling. It was impossible that Mr. Fell could have _actually_ known Shakespeare or Caesar or King Arthur, after all. They must have been mere stories, fanciful as they were intriguing.

Jack was feeling brave that day, however.

“Penny for your thoughts, Mr. Fell?”

Mr. Fell shuddered slightly and blinked.

“Oh, it’s nothing. Just thinking of an old friend.”

Jack nodded, not quite sure how to respond.

“And do call me Azira, please, Jack, Mr. Fell sounds awfully formal.”

Jack didn’t point out that that was rather the point. It was too late for him to turn back anyhow.

BEFORE

Jack had come to London without a penny to his name.

It had taken some time for him to merely get his bearings, more to earn a comfortable income, even more to get rid of his accent. He imagined his mother would hate the way he talked now, if she was still alive.

But his hard work had paid off, and surely but slowly he had worked his way into so-called Society. With it came all the frivolous things Society expected of a man: visiting the opera, visiting the gentlemen’s clubs, smoking and talking about politics, buying a house in a respectable part of town, then finding a nice, respectable girl and settling down.

He did all of those but the last, for reasons he avoided thinking about.

Not all of it was bad, of course. Coffee was a luxury he grew to deeply enjoy. And at the clubs, of course, he met Azira.

A DECISION

The clubs could be ever so quiet sometimes. Azira adapted to every stunted mood that passed the room with grace, but Jack felt restless. He could not sit still and_ read_. He could hear the breathing of everyone in the room and it stifled him, like all the rules he had to follow. The hairs on his arms stood up and he felt a second away from bursting, from screaming out everything he had bottled up for so long. He didn’t even know what it was scratching away inside of him, but he wanted it out, _now_—

A flash of white. Jack blinked, deflated, and Azira bobbed his head toward the entrance, as if to say, _let’s get out_.

Azira breathed deeply once they were out of the club, as if he had been the one needing fresh air, not Jack. The evening was cool, trailing over the cobbled roads like a snippet of gauze against skin.

“Well, I must admit,” Azira said. “I’d much rather read my books at home, don’t you agree?”

Jack nodded faintly. This was where it ended.

He shouldn’t have expected anything to last, really. He could go home and—take a nap. Probably. Forget about the whole thing.

“I have been really quite grateful for your companionship the past few months, dear Jack.”

Jack frowned, dreading what would come next.

But—there were no airy goodbyes, no, “well, I must get going,” nothing to indicate that this was a farewell speech.

“It may be imprudent of me, but I was wondering—do you enjoy dancing?”

THE GAVOTTE

Azira dancing was the happiest Jack ever saw him.

It made Jack unreasonably joyful, just watching his smiling profile.

Jack caught the glance of a fellow dancer. Their arms tucked together, and his curious, shining gaze told Jack everything he needed to know.

A CONFESSION

“Oh. _Oh_.” Azira’s eyes grew wide in his pale face.

“You are the same as me, am I not correct?” Jack’s voice sounded pitiful, even to his own ears. He swallowed. One could go to prison for less than what he’s just done, yet he knew, he _trusted_, that Azira would not be cruel.

Azira’s smile was tight and his eyes were cast down. “Whatever you are, dear Jack, is perfect already. You do not need me.”

“I’ll stop, Azira, I’m sorry, but could you at least think it over—”

“You don’t need me, Jack” Azira repeated. “Just be yourself.”

Jack paused. “You have someone already.” It was not a question.

Azira frowned. “I...”

“You should tell him,” Jack said.

Azira doesn’t reply.

AND SOMEHOW THINGS CONTINUED AS USUAL

“Even if did want to tell him,” Azira said out of nowhere, as if they had always been chatting instead of avoiding the topic for two weeks, “I couldn’t. He’s gone...away.”

Jack’s heart sank. He glanced around to check that no one was listening. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

Azira looked surprised. “Oh, it’s not like that. It’s more like he’s...tired. And doesn’t want to talk.”

“I can’t imagine that.” Jack frowned. “Who wouldn’t want to talk to you?”

“Not want...cannot talk, rather.” Azira sighs.

“He must not care for you very much then.” Jack said. Regret washed over him painfully as soon as the words left his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I didn’t mean to say that.”

Azira looks at him, not unkindly. “Sometimes I wonder myself. And yet...”

Azira had that distant look on him again, yet was smiling fondly, and Jack finally realised the magnitude of what he had stumbled upon.

QUIETLY

Azira didn’t come to the club much after that, until the day came when Jack realised he had not come at all for weeks and was not likely to return.

The discovery startled Jack only slightly. He turned to ask his fellow dancer, a young man named Kit, whether Azira had said any goodbyes before. Kit’s eyes widened and he glanced away immediately, as if was a school boy caught with an ink pellet ready to flick. His ears were a little red.

Jack’s heart leapt treacherously in his chest, and _no, he couldn’t, shouldn’t, stop thinking—_

NIGHTS

Sometimes Jack had dreams, filled with gusts of wind and fluttering feathers, and a gentle voice saying, _just be yourself_.

And sometimes Jack thought, maybe, just maybe—what he was was not wrong at all.

TWENTY YEARS LATER

Jack left his carriage, adjusting his tie for the fifth time that day. Not that his lover would mind. It was more a matter of principle. Old habits die hard and all that.

He passed the Ritz, shaking his head. There was a time when he would have done anything to get through those doors and all it stood for. Now he didn’t care much either way.

The pond in St. James’s park was glittering in the sun.

On the other side of the water, there were two figures, one white and one black, reclining on a benche. They sat awfully close to each other.

Something about the figures was familiar to Jack, but he couldn’t say why.

He stopped, and for a few moments, just looked. The man in white—it was a man, though Jack could not see his face—threw breadcrumbs to the ducks that flocked noisily before him. His dark companion tipped his hat, and all the ducks were silent. Nobody around them seemed to notice the sudden lack of chattering.

Jack blinked. He felt calm, suddenly, like nothing could harm him and that happiness was indeed in reach.

He turned. Kit was waiting under the oak tree, eyes bright and twinkling as the day they first met, visible even from a distance away.

When Jack looked back again, the figures were no longer there.


End file.
